


Law of Armed Conflict

by cymbalism



Series: Combat 'Verse [4]
Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Academy Era, Blood, Bruises, Daddy Issues, Drunkenness, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-03
Updated: 2011-10-03
Packaged: 2017-10-24 07:21:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/260609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cymbalism/pseuds/cymbalism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>McCoy had never known Jim Kirk to be a sad drunk. An obnoxious drunk, yes. A horny one, obviously. But a sad one? Not ever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Law of Armed Conflict

**Author's Note:**

> Inspiration assistance from "How You Survived the War" by The Weepies and a personal fascination with the Geneva Conventions.

_Definition: The law of armed conflict arises from a desire among civilized nations to prevent unnecessary suffering and destruction while not impeding the effective waging of war._

* * *

McCoy returned to the room after clinic hours to find Jim bloodied and standing at the washstand mirror. "Christ, Jim," he blurted, dropping his med bag in a hurry. "What'd you do?"

"Got in a fight," Jim replied, voice like loose gravel, then hissed as he swiped a cloth at his bleeding forehead.

"Damn it, Jim, give me that." McCoy stalked over and snatched the cloth from Jim. He clasped a hand under his chin to keep him from squirming away, ignoring the reek of alcohol and sweat. "In case you hadn't noticed, we're living in the middle of fucking Starfleet headquarters. It's a damn _peacekeeping force_ and you're standing here looking like there's a war on."

He dabbed the blood off Jim's face, avoiding the sensitive discoloration growing under one eye, and continued to bluster about Starfleet's peace-love-and-understanding policies and the potential for getting kicked out for violent behavior citations—of which Jim has already received one—while swatting Jim's hands out of the way and examining his battered head. "You think you're so damn smart, seems like you should know better," he concluded through clenched teeth, forcing himself to wring out the cloth instead of wring Jim's neck for being such an idiot.

Jim scowled. "It wasn't a fight with cadets, and it wasn't on Starfleet property, and there wasn't any citation, so you can quit worrying."

"I'm a doctor, Jim. It's my job to worry. It's also my job to fix your broken ass. Sit down." He guided the unsteady Jim a few steps in the general direction of his desk chair and went to rustle up some gauze and antiseptic from his med bag.

Jim had gained a reputation in San Francisco as a lover, not a fighter. But McCoy knew better, or at least had suspected different—he saw Jim fight some kind of battle every day. Jim studied and worked and fucked and wrote and _excelled_ like he was on some warpath of perfection. Even his cocksure attitude sometimes came off as part of a plan of attack to keep some unnamed foe at bay. It was a mental battle and most days Jim seemed to be winning it, but McCoy wasn't sure that made it okay.

He swabbed antiseptic over the slice at Jim's hairline and stuck a bandage to it. "That'll keep it sealed until I get you around a tissue regenerator," he said firmly, stepping back to examine his work even though he knew it was stupid and futile to think that one bandage was going to make a difference, or that a tissue regenerator could heal whatever gaping wound was evidently inside Jim.

"It can heal the old-fashioned way. Doesn't matter." Jim shrugged, wincing immediately.

McCoy frowned. "Take this off," he gave Jim's shirt two quick tugs and reached for his kit to dig for his tricorder.

"Why?" Jim asked, looking up at McCoy with what should have been bedroom eyes and a sassy smirk, but Jim's red-rimmed eyes and split lip made his attempted seduction fall far from the mark.

"Because I don't trust you not to go walking around with a broken rib out of some self-aggrandizing notion that Jim Kirk can just let his broken bones heal the 'old-fashioned way,' that's why."

Jim rolled his eyes but complied, peeling his t-shirt over his head with a grimace. His eyes were bloodshot, too, which meant he'd been at the drinking for well over a few hours. McCoy hadn't seen him since the day before, in lecture, because he'd been on clinic rotation.

Nothing that had happened between the two of them so far made this his business and McCoy knew that, but he fired off a comment anyway.

"Never known you to be a depressed drunk," he said. An obnoxious drunk, yes. A horny one, obviously. But a sad one? Not ever.

He crouched down get a look at Jim's torso. Sure enough, there were deep bruises breaking over his right side, toward his back—the kind you get from kidney punches.

"Depends on what I'm drinking," Jim retorted.

McCoy smelled bullshit behind the alcohol on Jim's breath but went with it. "Oh? And what were you drinking?" Jim didn't say a word as McCoy scanned for internal damage, but he winced again when McCoy pressed gently at his ribs.

"Whiskey."

"I drink whiskey, Jim. You steal it all the time."

"Right," Jim shot him a loose finger gun, but the humor was dead as the seduction. "Guess it depends on why I'm drinking, then."

"Yeah, okay," McCoy swallowed, very unsure he wanted the answer to this next question. He kept working steadily, but his words came out low, his voice dry and tight in his throat. "Why were you drinking?"

Jim's laugh could've been a dry sob. "Because, Bones," he held up an invisible toast, "today is my birthday."

McCoy only half knew what that meant. He knew about the _Kelvin_ —though he'd learned about it in his requisite Starfleet history course, not from Jim, and had made the Kirk connection on his own—but the bitterness and hurt bleeding into Jim's words led him to believe there was a hell of a lot more to it than the ghost of a memory Jim never had.

"James T. Kirk," Jim continued, raising his toasting arm higher, "harbinger of doom. Bringer of death and destruction. Born twenty-five years ago today, a day everyone would prefer to forget. Or, better yet, wishes never happened." His laugh turned into a cough, and Jim hunched over and clutched at his ribs as he rode it out.

McCoy's hands dropped from Jim's sides and he stood slowly, his mind reeling with the words he couldn't say because his heart was in his throat—words like _Christ, Jim,_ and _what did somebody do to you?_

Jim flicked a glance up at him and set himself in motion immediately, donning his t-shirt again. McCoy's heart then slammed into his stomach as he realized he'd been standing there with crossed arms and deep-creased brow just like the jackass doctor without an answer that he was.

"Jim—" he tried.

"Whatever. Doesn't fucking matter," Jim muttered as he got up and brushed past McCoy to grab his leather jacket from of his bed.

McCoy stepped in behind him, blocking the way to the door, arms still crossed. "You're not going anywhere."

Jim's tone was as calculatedly flat as his stare. "You don't want some sorry drunk around."

McCoy wanted to remind Jim that he'd been that sorry drunk once. He wanted to tell him that he understood, now, what Jim was fighting against—that Jim didn’t have to defend his existence, that he didn’t have to prove his worth to make up for somebody else's loss. But none of that would make a difference right now. To offer that kind of comfort would be to pretend that war is anything other than what it is: unpredictable and ugly, bloody and cruel, and unjust.

"That's why you're going to bed to sober up," McCoy returned gruffly. "You don't have a concussion and I'm not letting you go out to get one."

He shoved away the sick thought of Jim collecting injuries as birthday presents and didn't budge from the path of door while he repacked his med bag. After several steely seconds, Jim slapped his coat over the back of his desk chair in annoyance, and plopped onto his bed to pull off his boots.

McCoy shucked his scrubs shirt but left on the pants and kicked off his shoes. Jim was already sprawled beneath his covers, elbow bent over his eyes and frown visible.

"Scoot," McCoy ordered.

Jim blinked up at him. "What?"

"Scoot." McCoy lifted the blanket and slid in next to him by way of explanation. Jim shifted onto his side and shimmied back toward the wall, his face plastered with confusion.

There was a war waging inside Jim. He was locked in an armed conflict against himself, against the hurt of history, and he might never win it, and McCoy couldn't help him fight it. But he could cut down on the pain, maybe. That was a doctor's work—to alleviate suffering, to provide for the amelioration of the sick and wounded in a time of war. Stanch the worst of the bleeding. Bandage the wounds he could see. Enforce rest between battles.

They settled on facing one another, not touching except for their bent knees. McCoy reached out a hand—Jim closed his eyes and McCoy wanted to believe it hadn't been a flinch—and rested the heel of his thumb against Jim's cheek, feathering his fingers through the light blond hair along Jim's forehead, over the bandaged cut.

If only that was enough.


End file.
